


Con Pan Dulce

by imma_redshirt



Series: Héctor and Miguel Just Being Héctor and Miguel [1]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-09 23:15:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12898926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imma_redshirt/pseuds/imma_redshirt
Summary: It's the Battle of the Bands, and Miguel's nerves are getting the best of him. Hector suggests an odd solution: pan dulce.





	Con Pan Dulce

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick, mid-movie oneshot. The idea wouldn't leave me alone, so I had to write it out. And, God, I love marranitos, those little ginger bread piggies, but I think conchas are prettier, so they're the spotlight here. 
> 
> If I've made any mistakes--regarding my awful Spanglish, or any mistakes regarding Dia de Muertos, or anything at all--please let me know! 
> 
> Enjoy!

The Battle of the Bands had just begun, and Miguel’s nerves were getting the best of him. Over on the stage, a rock band was belting out some hard, heavy notes that were loud enough to send vibrations backstage and through the box Miguel was sitting on. He could feel it in his _teeth._ Even Héctor’s bones were jittering on every other note, but the spirit didn’t seem to pay it any mind. The music was loud enough to reverberate in Miguel’s _head._ The crowd, on the other hand…

“Listen to them,” Miguel said, shrinking in on himself, suddenly _kind of_ wishing he could sink right into the box, “They’re not even reacting. They’re as silent as, as--”

“As the grave?” Héctor said, raising one brow ridge. Miguel still wasn’t sure how Héctor’s, or any of the skeletons’ faces could do that--they were _bone_ \--but he’d stopped thinking too hard about it a long time ago (meaning right after he’d run away from his dead relatives, which was… well, he wasn’t sure just how long ago that was, but it felt like a long time, ok?)

Ignoring Héctor’s chuckles at his own joke, Miguel pulled the top of his hoodie over his eyes and groaned. “What if they react like that to _me?_ I, I won’t know what to do!”

“Ah,” Héctor waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t _worry_ chamaco, you’ll do fine! Just another crowd, right? Just another hundred or so faces, all of ‘em watching and waiting for _you_ to sing and really _wow_ them, y’know? And--ay, this isn’t helping,” Héctor added with a grimace as Miguel pulled his hoodie tighter around his face and groaned.

“Hey hey, look, it’s normal to be nervous before a show--we all get nervous! It comes with being a musician. Mira, once you get on that stage, you just give ‘em your best grito, and, and--hey! How about a concha?”

“Huh?” Miguel pulled his hoodie up just enough to peek at the ex-musician’s grinning skull. 

“Pan dulce, Miguelito! You need sugar.”

“Sugar?”

“It’ll calm you down,” Héctor said, standing up to look over the spirits milling around backstage, eyes squinting. “And hey, if it doesn’t work for you, it’ll work for me! They always hand some out at these things. Uh, un momento, vamos a ver, ah… hah!”

Snapping his fingers, Héctor disappeared into a small group gathered by a table. Miguel stood, but before he could follow, Héctor’s head popped up from above the group, held up by a stretched out arm, and winked at Miguel as the rest of his body squeezed between the other spirits until he was free.

In his free hand was a ceramic plate filled with conchas. Pink and yellow and chocolate, the sugary tops cracked like shells atop fluffy bread. With a grin, Héctor dropped his skull back onto his neck and hopped back onto his box.

“Àndale, chamaco,” he said, handing out the plate. “Take your pick. Might as well kill time before you’re up, no? Better than worrying your head off.”

Doubtful, but forever unable to turn down his favorite pan dulce, Miguel picked out one with a bright yellow top. Some sugar fell away under his fingers, and he quickly tossed the crumbly pieces into his mouth without thinking.

“Ah, these are the best,” Héctor sighed, watching the plate of sweet bread like he was watching the love of his life. “I get one whenever I get the chance, which, you know, isn’t often.” 

“Me too!” Miguel said. Grinning at each other, silently bonding over a shared appreciation for a good concha, the prospective musician and ex-musician chowed down.

At the first bite, Miguel’s eyebrows shot up. He’d been caught off guard by an odd taste he couldn’t quite pin point. As Héctor took another chocolate one for himself, Miguel bit into the bread again, and frowned as he chewed. It was definitely a concha--a really good one, too--but there was something just a little… off. Weird. 

“Why does it taste weird?” He said around a mouthful of sugar and bread.

“Hey,” Héctor said quickly, glancing over his head at a skeleton who had turned very quickly to eye Miguel as soon as he spoke. “Watch it. Rita’s daughter made these, and they’re perfecto, Rita!” He added in a raised tone, and waved good naturedly at the suspicious skeleton. 

“Her daughter?”

“A tribute she left on Rita’s grave,” Héctor answered, taking a bite of his chocolate pastry. “And it tastes _different,_ not weird, because we’re not in the world of the living.” He spun the plate on his knee cap, and the colors swirled together like a tri-colored rainbow. “I guess these are the memories of the tributes our living family and friends leave for us.” He frowned. “Ah, I don’t know how these things work. Something like that, anyway.”

“Oh,” Miguel said, biting into the last bit of his concha, and thinking about the sweets his family left on the grave stones in the cemetery. “Still good!”

“Yeah,” Héctor said. He stared at his half eaten bread thoughtfully. “I hear they taste even better if your family leaves them especially for you.”

Miguel looked up, a second concha already in his hand. “Really?”

“It’s what I hear,” Héctor said, shrugging. “Pero, I wouldn’t know. Never crossed the bridge, never seen my grave or ofrenda, never eaten food left for me.” He frowned, silent for a moment, and tossed his bread back on the plate. “Bueno. Enough of that. How do you feel? Ready for the stage?”

Mouth full of pink concha, Miguel shrugged and made a vague “I dunno” noise.

At that moment, three nuns began to head for the stage, and Miguel realized it was almost his turn. 

“We’re running out of time,” Héctor said, setting the plate on the ground and dusting his hands. “C’mon, best grito, let’s go.”

Miguel swallowed, suddenly very nervous again, and tried to gather all the bravery he could before he took the stage to literally play for his life.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_One year later…_

“Mijo… are you sure this isn’t a little _much?_ ”

Looking up from the family ofrenda, Miguel considered his father’s hesitant question. “What, this? I’d say it isn’t _enough!_ ”

On first level of the ofrenda was a pile of fluffy, fresh, chocolate conchas. The pile was almost as high as his head, and definitely higher than Baby Coco in his arms. Miguel stood nearby, checking it over to figure out where he could stick some more, when his little sister reached out a chubby hand to grab at one sugary bread.

“No no, Coco!” Miguel laughed, stepping away so the bread was out of Coco’s reach. “Those are for Papá Héctor! They’re are his favorite, you know.”

“What makes you say that?” Papá asked from behind him.

“Just a guess,” Miguel said, and grinned to himself. “Come on, Coco! Want to help me make some more?”

Coco babbled and waved her arms, which Miguel took as an enthusiastic yes. Ignoring Papá’s faint, disbelieving “ _More?_ ,” Miguel headed for the kitchen, hefting Coco higher in his arms.

“Papá Héctor is going to love them,” he told Coco, who giggled in response. “Cause we’re making them just for him, ok? That way they taste better. You know it’s going to be the first time he eats some that were made _just_ for him? So we gotta do a good job, ok?”

Coco patted Miguel’s cheeks, and Miguel laughed. Somewhere on the Other Side, where his ancestors were preparing to cross over for Dia de Muertos, there was going to be a very happy great-great-grandpa.


End file.
